The Swing
by Nothing Short of Interesting
Summary: A short and somewhat light-hearted one-shot visually inspired by Fragonard's painting 'The Swing' in the Wallace Collection. This takes place seven years after the Battle of Hogwarts. Hermione is Potions Professor at Hogwarts and Professor Snape is Headmaster.


A short and somewhat light-hearted one-shot visually inspired by Fragonard's painting 'The Swing' in the Wallace Collection.

This takes place seven years after the Battle of Hogwarts. Hermione is Potions Professor at Hogwarts and Professor Snape is Headmaster.

I hope you like it.

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The Swing

Wind swirled through the weightless skirts of Hermione's blush pink gown as she swung back and forth beneath fresh green of the canopy of ash trees at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. The crawling ivy, which encircled the ropes and trailed on the ground, left irritable imprints on the palms of her hands but went wilfully unnoticed. Lilting and light-hearted tunes swam softly on the slightly chilled Spring air from the twelve fiddlers far beyond the forest, interrupted only by the sound of faraway laughter and the rustling of the leaves above her. Hermione closed her eyes and smiled as she inhaled the intoxicating scents of bluebells and wild garlic that dotted the forest floor. Nowhere did she feel more alive and in harmony with nature than when she was on the secluded swing.

May Day at Hogwarts had always been celebrated, but the celebrations in the seven years since the war had been particularly poignant. Festivities had commenced earlier in the day when the Queen of the May had ridden, dressed in white and garlanded with wild flowers, into the courtyard of the school atop a Hippogriff. Hagrid was the Green Man, of course, and had led her down to the school fields and awaiting maypole with her entourage and fiddlers in tow. All members of the school were festively dressed in their pastels and greenery and even the ever-stern Headmaster had been obliged to wear a small bunch of may blossom in his breast pocket. Hermione had particularly noticed this as they walked beneath the enchanted pink petals, which were swirling above the procession.

The lightness of the day's festivities, however, could never fully compensate for the lead weight in her chest every time May dawned. Every facet of Spring reminded her of the war; the blossoms, the bluebells, the chirping of the blackbird, even the longer evenings and soft light in the mornings. Memories of those she had lost and thoughts of those she had nearly lost wounded her over and over again. The pain sometimes became beyond bearable and she would wander to her swing to seek solace and comfort in the forest. It was during the maypole dancing earlier in the day that the memories had reared their ugly heads.

"Now, what would a young Gryffindor such as yourself be doing out here alone on a day such as today?" The shock of the velvety tones of his drawl behind her clearly had the desired effect and he smirked as she spun in her seat, still swinging, to look at him. Much to his relief, her startled expression softened to a smile as she turned away and resumed her previous pose.

Before stepping forwards, Severus took a moment to absorb the enchanting scene ahead of him. It was the first time he had seen her in a colour lighter than charcoal grey since she was a student, so the ethereal beauty of her struck deep within him. The insufferable know-it-all with bushy hair had, in her four-year absence from his life after the war, blossomed into a fiercely intelligent young witch with the gamine beauty to match. From the moment she had walked into his office for her Potions Professor interview three years ago, he had been a little bit in love with her but he hid it well, certain in the knowledge that she would be snapped up by a dashing young wizard in the not-too-distant future. Instead of voicing his true feelings, he made do with their increasingly lively conversations at mealtimes, in the corridors, or in other stolen moments throughout their working days on subjects as broad as physics and art.

"Shouldn't you be with the others?" Hermione asked as she watched him make his way to sit on the fallen log opposite her. The inky blackness of his stiffly buttoned coat stood out awkwardly against wild haphazardness of the forest, dappled in the creamy late afternoon sunshine. The heavy black teaching robe that he was wearing at the parade, she noticed, was missing.

"You know I'm not one for festivities at the best of times, Hermione," replied Severus as picked up several blades of grass and blew onto them. They morphed into little birds and swirled up to dance around Hermione as she continued to swing. The way she beamed at him and laughed in response made his old heart clench in painfully undiluted joy; something only she had the power to do these days. "Besides, I was curious to learn where you had vanished to." A slight smile pinched the corner of his lips as he proceeded to turn fallen blossom petals into blush pink dragonflies.

"And you, of course, found me in an instant, Severus," she smiled at him gently. It can't have been more than twenty minutes before he had found her. They had been on first-name-terms for approximately one year; something which had happened so organically that she didn't even notice it was happening. It was only in private that they would use them; never within earshot of their colleagues.

Hermione was, however, able to pinpoint the moment at which she fell in love with him. There was nothing outwardly elaborate about the day or the way in which it happened; everything about it was very ordinary apart from the way it still made her heart ache. On that cold January morning, he had offered her his arm as they walked across the perilously icy courtyard to the Great Hall for breakfast. Both of them had known the spell for vanishing the ice, but neither of them had chosen to use it. Ever since then, she was convinced, though nothing was ever said for fear that she was imagining it, that there was a warmth in his black eyes reserved only for her. Distracted by the memory of his touch, she swung a little too hard and kicked her pale pink shoe into the grass at Severus's feet.

"That I did," replied Severus with a nod as he leant down to retrieve her shoe, which looked dainty in his large hands. "Do you know how this swing came to be here?" Severus stood, noticing that she had stopped swinging and was instead watching him closely with her hands clasped in her lap.

"There are many legends," Hermione said absently, distracted by the fact that he was holding her shoe.

"But only one of them true," Severus answered as began to unbutton the many buttons on his coat, noticing how Hermione watched his fingers intently as he did so.

"Which one?" she whispered and swallowed hard as the crisp whiteness of his shirtsleeves were revealed for the first time. She could barely breath.

"The Bloody Baron one," he shrugged as he slipped his coat off and threw it behind onto the fallen log. "It was built by him for Helena Ravenclaw in the hope of ending the torture that was his unrequited love." Their eyes met for a second until he looked away and placed her shoe on the ground below her feet. "Unfortunately for them both, it didn't work." Severus stood back to full height and smiled wryly.

"Hmm, very unfortunate," Hermione recalled the legend of the deceased couple and smiled at his sarcastic understatement. A pair of male woodpigeons fighting in the tree above startled them out of their brief silent pause and he strode over to stand behind her. The mild breeze rippled through the loosened linen of his shirt and pulled taut against his chest. Without warning, his hands gripped the ivy-twined ropes above her head and he leant close to her.

"May I?" The smooth drawl of his voice seemed to entwine with her soul and she bit her lip as his breath caressed her ear and she relished their closeness. It made sense now why he had removed his coat; he was going to push her on the swing. All she could do was nod in response as she tightly gripped the ropes below his hands. "One," he began to count as he pulled her back slightly, "two," he continued to pull her back, "three," he released her and stood back as she swung forwards. Every time she began to slow down, he gently placed his hand on the small of her back and pushed her again.

Secure in the knowledge that she could not see him, Severus allowed himself the luxury of laughing for the first time in years. The barbed tension which has claimed every part of his body over the course of his painfully unfair life was for that moment vanquished as contentment reigned. The light melody of her laughter was more music to his ears than the twelve fiddlers at the celebrations could ever hope to conjure and his palm burned with the knowledge of her form and the exquisitely soft fabric of her dress.

"Severus, stop," she laughed through the blinding exhilaration that she felt every time he touched her.

Obliging as always when it came to her, Severus gripped the ropes and brought her slowly to a stop. Panting slightly from the sudden exertion, he didn't move from his position and instead found himself closer to her hair than he had ever been. The long curls cascading down her back brushed against him and he admired their loveliness. Without warning, she turned in her seat and stared up into his eyes with a barely readable expression of intensity.

"Hermione.." he began breathily, unsure of how to say what is was that needed to be said.

"Shh," she shushed him gently and stood to face him, the swing bumping between them. The heroic Severus Snape, feared Headmaster of Hogwarts, stood speechless before her with a new look of pure vulnerability in his eyes. Hermione silently begged him to break the tension and speak to her honestly. Wind rustled the leaves around them and the sound of fiddles continued, but all seemed to fade into silence as they looked at each other.

"Please tell me," he spoke softly, "if my love for you is unrequited."

The plea in his voice and the hope in his dark eyes betrayed the fear and uncertainty he felt. Acceptance was not something he ever expected, least of all where his heart was concerned. Years of pain and acres of memories, all heavy with anticipation, crowded around them in the forest and waited for her to answer.

"No, Severus," her voice, usually so steady, faltered and she lifted her hand to cup his pale cheek, "it is not."

Tentatively and all too painfully aware of the unfamiliar sensation of her hand on his cheek, Severus took her hand and brought her fingertips to his lips, closing his eyes against the torrent of emotions her answer had thrust upon him. Softly, he pressed his lips to her fingertips and then to her palm in silent kisses of promise and longing.

With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye, Hermione took his hand and pulled him towards her, both of them all too aware that the ghosts of their pasts were watching as their two tortured souls were healed and united with a kiss.


End file.
